


un cœur d'absinthe

by phaenomenaa



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, i'm sorry i can't write anything happy w/ these 2, insensible marriages & drunken dances, one day, slow spirals into sad decents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-15 09:55:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3442838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phaenomenaa/pseuds/phaenomenaa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>prompted on tumblr as "meeting at a support group." changed it up a little; support groups are mentioned, but they meet beforehand. </p><p>roaring twenties love, and all the good stuff that comes with passionate, young marriages. also known as unhappy endings. enjoy! (f. scott fitzgerald is to blame for this, fyi.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	un cœur d'absinthe

( _je t’aime_ )

The hand on her waist—his—slackened a moment, the tug of his fingers lessened by the dull throb of green-laced blood in his head. She pulled him closer, hips to hers as they stumbled, and she laughed, “Gosh, that drink is _bad_.” 

Her hand came down to tug on his, pulled him further into the cool streets of Berlin. A car drove by, calm in the night with its slow engine stutter, the glow of the back lights bright. There was a dainty hand out the window, the tug-and-pull of cigarettes’ smoke. It turned, leaving the couple alone on a dead-quiet block, with only looming streetlamps to watch them. Everybody else was either busy getting drunk in speakeasies, or dreaming off the alcohol. 

Ludwig chuckled, with his cheeks flushed so red, “I didn't even like it.” She made them stop, wobbled a bit as she gripped onto his arm, her leg coming up to her side as she pulled her heel off. She mumbled, leaning into him to kick the other shoe off her foot, “Then why d’you drink it?” 

His shoulders rose in a shrug, the grey tweed of his suit crinkling. Ludwig held her up whilst she steadied herself on her stocked-up toes, slid her fingers in her heels to carry. She mumbled a slow, drawled, “Thanks, _schatz_.” 

“ _Bitte_ ,” he replied, and the couple staggered on their walk to their luxurious hotel; was it on their next left? or did they have to keep to the street a few blocks down? Boy, his head was swirling, he couldn't remember. 

He busied himself on answering her, kept up their tipsy stroll on the cement. “It wasn't gross, but—I don’t know,” he tried to explain, holding onto her hand; sweaty and balmy but soft. Ludwig liked soft.

She giggled, leaned in to his side. “I’m gonna stick to—” she slurred, “—to my gin and tonic, next time.”

“Oh, so there’s going to be a next time?” he asked, pulling her to a left; yes, he thought it was here, could see the imposing architecture, the grand building. She tugged back, “No, not there Lud—it’s over _here_.” 

“No-pe,” he said, with the pop of his lips (God, they were _so_ drunk,) and maybe now he wasn't so sure, but his head was pounding. He blinked slowly, peered down at her and shook his head. “ _Komm hier_ , it’s this way.” 

Now she was laughing, her delightful little giggle, perhaps just a little more drunk, “ _Non_!” 

He was chuckling too; why? he couldn't have explained it if one asked, but he was. Ludwig obliged her, answering in French, “Why not?” 

“I—I don’t want to get to our room just yet.” He felt her hand slip from his hold, and she was backing up from with a smile on her lips. “Indulge me?” 

Ludwig’s eyebrows drew together in a confused frown, softening when he saw what she meant to do under the streetlamp ahead, on the quieter street a few paces away. She stood in front of small shops, just herself and her reflection in the empty glass, darkened in the night. She leaned a palm on the cool metal, inclined her face to the side, “Do me the honours?” 

He chuckled, “There’s no music, Marion.” 

She pouted, held that little crease between her brows, “So?” She bit her lip, grinned like she was about to say something silly, “I’ll hum in your ear. _Allez, danse avec moi_.” 

He considered her a moment, gazed over the beads of her dress shimmering in the low light. His eyes flitted to her face: her lipstick had smudged (there was probably some blemished red on his own mouth, he figured,) her mascara flaking and she hiccuped tipsily. He smiled shyly, favoured an ‘okay,’ and fit his palm against hers as he approached, placed a hand on her waist. She leaned into his chest, into the heat of him, and pressed her forehead to his. Her hand was warm over his shoulder, and he swayed clumsily—she followed just as shoddily, and they both choked up a laugh. 

Ludwig dropped a kiss on her nose and lead her to the rhythm of the hammering pulse in his ears, absinthe running its course. 

( _moi aussi_ )

.  
.

It was clichéd, her— _their_ , pardon,—love story, so terribly, terribly clichéd, she thought, as she played with his hair, brushed it off his forehead while he slept. Her fingertips were warm against his cheek, and she sighed, sliding closer to him. He settled an arm over her waist, and she nestled her head under his chin. He let out a soft snore, she kissed his collarbone and drummed her fingers over his chest as she waited for him to wake. It was still early, and the heat-red sunlight was slowly starting to filter into their opulent hotel suite. 

She slid her naked leg over his, felt him tug on her hips as he stirred, long lashes brushing eyes open. The girl pressed her lips underneath his jawline as she glanced up, smiled when he muttered a gravely, “ _guten Morgen_.”

“My head is in a _pain_ ,” she whispered, untangling herself from him as she sat up with the sheet pressed over her chest. “How’s yours?” 

“Absinthe should be deemed a sin,” he replied, rubbing a palm over his eyes. His other hand brushed a swipe down her spine, thumb pad on her bone. “I don’t even know why I kept drinking.” 

Marion laughed lowly as she pulled herself out of bed, scorned, “Says the man who knows moderation. _Supposedly_.” She walked over to the bathroom and heard him retort, “Moderation. When _sober_.” 

She came back with two glasses of water, hobbled over the bed to give him one. He muttered a ‘thank you,’ drank, and settled the empty cup on the nightstand. When she finished, she draped herself over his lap, placed her arms on his shoulders and kissed him. He hummed in surprise, laced his hands over her lower back and broke away, “Marion, _nein_.” 

She pressed her chest against his, pouted, “Why not?” 

“I feel like my brain might explode,” he replied, drew soft circles into her skin with the pads of his thumbs. “ _Et alors_?” she said, pulsed her lips over the corner of his mouth. “I think,” she started, rocking her pelvis over his, “that _this_ , will be of much relief for hangovers.”

“Do you?” he teased, mouthed her neck. She hummed in response, and he sighed, toppled her over the bed gently. “It’s only a hypothesis,” she answered, giggling when his fingers traced the planes of her stomach. “But I think it’s worth a try.”

“And if it doesn't work?” he asked, palm cupping over her crotch. She exhaled breathily, answered in a moan as her body keened into his, “Then we’ll just have to try again—” 

He chuckled lowly as he shook his head, and she brought his face closer to hers, breathing into him, “Quit laughing at me, mister.”

“I can’t, not when my wife’s this silly.”

“And yet you married her.”

.  
.

“Three years, now?” Erzsi asked her over a cup of steaming coffee, the smell wafting over to Marion’s side of the table. It was rich and creamy and everything she wished her marriage would be today. 

She forced a smile—happier than it should have been—and said, “We celebrated the anniversary a week ago. It was real _sweet_.” 

“What d’you guys do?” Erzsi was so blatantly oblivious to any strain between the couple, Marion could’ve broken down and cried right there. Instead, she offered a coy smile, her nail rimming around her own cup, fingering the handle as she twirled it in its porcelain plate. 

“He took me out to the pictures, like we use to when we had just met. _Die Verrufenen_ was playing—it was really good! we both liked it a lot—and then we went out to some little café that was still open—it was pretty late when we got out—and we had pastries for supper. And then we went home, and well, _you know_.” She took a sip from her tea, now gone cold. Her face twisted in a wry grimace. “It was a modest _fête_ and I had a blast.” 

“Oh, that sounds swell!” Her friend grinned, fingers drumming against the table. Marion cocked her head to the side; there was something on Erszébet’s face, an emotion of eagerness, like she had something to say. Before she could just part her lips to ask, her friend continued, “Well, did you get each other anything?” 

Marion’s hand flitted up to her ear, touched the pretty amethyst stone that dangled there. “He got me these,” she simpered, “and I got him a new suit. Finely tailored.” 

_“Would you just wear it?” she asks, exasperated, and he’s stubbornly sitting in his fauteuil, blatantly ignoring her as he hides behind the inked-up news. He sighs, tells her no, since he won’t be attending the meeting. Her jaw clenches, and she chucks the three-piece tweed on the chaise longue beside her. The outline of her chin trembles, and she folds her arms over her chest. “Why not?”_

_“I told you Marion—I've no need for them,” he answers, turns the page of his newspaper. The indifferent tone of his voice is enough for her to break, and she feels the tears in her eyes spill over her cheeks. She sniffs, brushes delicate fingers underneath her nose and mutters, “That is a goddamned lie, and you know it.”_

_The paper crinkles roughly as he brusquely folds the journal close; “No it’s not—I am perfectly fine, and you've put this idea in your head that I’m not, and that somehow sitting in this circle for some hour is going to fix whatever it is that’s wrong with me. It’s completely irratio—”_

_“It isn't, Ludwig! God—” she hiccups, her voice squeaks. “When you wake up in the middle of the night, and—and you’re screaming and crying and you’re scaring me—and I try, God knows—but I can’t help you? I try, but you just keep having these nightmares, and I can’t do anything to stop them! You’re telling me you’re fine?”_

_He watches her, frowns; his eyes are as sad as she. He starts to say something lowly, but she cuts him off, swallows a sob, “You are not fine. You aren't, and you’re getting angry because I am trying to help you. I am your wife.” She brushes a pearl of a tear off her cheekbone, “I just want you to get better. So please, put on your suit, and we’ll go to the meeting.”_

_Ludwig can’t answer her plea. He shakes his head, tells her, “Marion. I’ll be alright.”_

_Her chest heaves, lungs pulling and tugging against her rib cage, and she breathes shakily. “Fine.” She ushers out in the hall, pulls off her coat from its rack. “I’ll be at the meeting.” The door is loud behind her, and Ludwig sighs. He needs a beer._

“Did he like it?” Erzsi asked, clearly distracted by other things, but she was kind enough of a friend to seem interested in Marion’s love life. 

“I wouldn't know—he hasn't put it on yet,” Marion answered dryly, playing with the band of gold around her finger. “Is there something you want to tell me, Erzsi?” 

Her friend startled slightly, and bit her lip in impatience. “Is it that obvious?” 

“You've been fidgety since you got here.” 

“Okay, well—it’s still a little early, but—” she breathed in, “I’m _pregnant_!” 

Marion’s stomach sunk. “Oh, Erzsi. Golly.” Her heart felt heavy. _A baby, and Erzsi and Roderich had only been married almost fourteen months._

“You’re not happy?”

“No, gee, no! I really am—that’s wonderful, Erzsi! Does Roderich know?” 

“He’s absolutely ecstatic, I think. A little worried, but that’s his usual self, and all—”

She leaned into her palm, smiled a sad little smile, listening to her friend go on about the wonders of her life. She’d once been so fortunate. Once. 

.

.

( _je t’aime_ )

“I've been to the meetings, and—” she played with her fingers, couldn't bare to look at him, “—and the men, they've gotten better, Ludwig.” 

“Marion, I told you—” he tried to cut her off, but she didn't relent, and tears were welling in her eyes. If he would just listen, she thought, and tried again, “Not all, but most of the soldiers! They've been doing progress, and their minds are at ease. Ludwig, they’re _happy_.” She crouched next to him, took his hands into hers, and urged, “If you would just go, please. Once, and maybe—maybe you could get better too, and—”

“No,” he said, whispered dejectedly. “Marion, I’m fine.” 

“No, you are _not_!” she let go, got up. “You are _not_ fine, and I—” her voice choked, and she felt tears wet her face. “You refuse to get better! I can’t—I can’t _understand_ you anymore. I don’t see why you won’t.” 

He lifted himself from the mattress, concern in his eyes as he tried to bring her close, but she pushed back, took a few paces away. She muttered, angry, “I am trying to help you, but you won’t. And I just—I _can’t_ anymore.” 

Marion pushed out of the room, wiping her cheeks dry as she stumbled down the hallway to get her coat and get out, and she wished he’d call after her, but his silence was deafening. She couldn't care, not anymore. She hadn't the will, nor the energy.

( _moi non plus_ )

**Author's Note:**

> i'm sorry if this made you sad—if it's of any comfort, this made me sad too.
> 
> translations :
> 
> je t'aime; I love you  
> moi aussi; me too  
> moi non plus; me neither  
> schatz; sweetheart  
> bitte; please  
> komm hier; come here  
> allez, danse avec moi; come on, danse with me  
> guten Morgen; good morning  
> nein; no  
> et alors?; so what?  
> fête; party


End file.
